Saturday, December 8, 2012

Crabby Creek Revisited

The big, gracious beech with its carved initials—the one
that created its own clearing midway down the steep hill, the one that offered
us strong horizontal branches for easy climbing—is gone. No trace remains. Some
of the hearts and letters, not all, had been our doing; other climbers had defaced the smooth bark long before we discovered it. A short
distance from the void where (we believe) the beech had once stood—much closer,
in truth, than in my memory—the challenging cliffs that once served as our wild
wild west overlook the creek. Fifty years later, they are still impressive.

The whole of our childhood playground—the cliffs, the creek,
the salamanders, the pollywogs—is now a township park, with a sign and all. The
fact is, it was always public property, being too rugged for fast-buck
developers to easily plop houses upon. But now it is official. With a sign and
all.

The bridges that had made the stream banks accessible to vehicles in the
years before we claimed them as our own have crumbled and crashed. That
remarkable “road” was probably built between 1935 and 1943, when the United
States government provided jobs for eight million men. Back then it’s very
possible that humble structures built of oak stood along the banks of the
Crabby. Structures that housed families with children. Children who climbed
trees and carved hearts in their smooth bark. If so, no surface signs remain. Any
trash heaps that may have existed are buried under many layers of forest
debris.

One thing is certain: the dirt road that gave us access to crayfish and
adventure predated Green Road, the winding street where our post World War II childhood
home still stands overlooking the wooded ridge.

“You take the low road and I’ll
take the high road…,” we used to sing, sometimes walking the low trail by the
creek and other times the upper (WPA?) lane as we made our way to the small
man-made pond by the railroad tracks. The pond too is gone, a victim of the
cul-de-sac built for the convenience of two extravagant houses that replaced our
road. The dirt had to go somewhere.

Why the pond and its associated dam were there
in the first place is another question. They were positioned just south of a
freight line that was built sometime after the mid 19th century. Was
there a practical connection between the two? Maybe not. The pond may have been
constructed for the convenience of a wealthy pre-Depression Philadelphian who
desired a fishing hole. We do like to control our environment.

At any rate, the
pond is absent and the dam is a useless slab of concrete. Harmless remnants of
the past, layered with leaves. I want to walk up the hill to see if blueberries
still grow near the house we lived in, or if the deer have changed the plant
community that left an indelible impression in my consciousness, but grownup
restraint holds me back.

The curved banks of the Crabby have been undercut, in
some spots, by waters rushing down hills foolishly cleared of their oaks and
beeches. But the surrounding forest is wonderfully alive. Papery beech leaves
cling to juvenile trees, and every shade of dirty blonde is represented in the
rustle beneath our feet. We see brilliant orange orb weavers, multiple signs of
woodpeckers, prints from the cloven hooves of deer.

Tires lay on the ground
near the defunct dam, posed in a distinct pattern, arranged, we guess—we
hope—by kids who spend their summer days looking under rocks for salamanders. On
hot summer days, we imagine, they “help” the waters of Crabby Creek flow in
channels built of stones and sticks, and prod crayfish out of their crevices.

Maybe
they find slim trees that some stunt of nature has caused to bend down, and up,
and then down again, and ride them like camels. And maybe, hopefully, they will
grow up to know the difference between a white oak and a chestnut oak, and
recognize that beeches flaunt their papery leaves far into the winter months,
and that dead trees are hotbeds of life.

They will see white waxy Indian pipes
rising from the dark earth, and weave the ghostly images into stories that will
play and replay in their minds throughout their lives, triggered by the sweet
smell of decaying oak leaves, the rippling waters of a small creek, or the always
thrilling sight of the nodding translucent flowers of the elusive saprophyte.

Crabby Creek will live on in their minds as they travel
their lives, its steady flow defying attempts to dam or reroute it with sticks
and stones. Their future dealings with the natural world—we hope—will be
measured by its clarity and its promise.

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About Me

Gardens are my livelihood; nature my entertainment. Over the years I’ve managed vegetable and flower test gardens for Organic Gardening magazine, and planned appropriately historic flower gardens for Morven Museum in Princeton, New Jersey. I’ve kept the beautiful Glasbern Inn property in Fogelsville, Pennsylvania blooming for many summers, and now grow vegetables for the inn's authentic farm-to-table restaurant. Relatively late in life, I acquired a BS in Horticulture. Later yet, an MS in Environmental Science. But my real education has come from the garden--every day I learn something new. In this space I'll share discoveries and insights. Note: I was recently quoted in the New York Times! Check out "Ergonomic Tools that Prune Away Gardening Pains"